Hands in the Dark
by Swordage
Summary: Sanzo knows what happens to boys with pretty faces. Hakkai knows what happens to drunk monks with pretty faces.


It was the hands on his thighs that did it. He'd been fine until then, the drunken haze kindly glossing over the wandering fingers and coils of arousal in his belly. He hadn't minded when his jeans were tugged down, when his top was pushed up to wrinkle over his chest, hadn't even minded being laid flat on his back on someone's bed. But the hands, slightly impatient, pushing at his thighs like that -

He had reached for his gun, but his robes were somewhere else, and so he froze. Completely. He was aware, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he was still very drunk and that he must make quite a picture, sprawled and trembling with the whites of his eyes showing, staring fixedly at the ceiling and barely breathing in his terror. The hands stopped. He wanted them to go away, to never come back, to die if it meant not touching him, but his gun was gone damnit and he didn't know what to do and he couldn't think.

"Sanzo?" a voice murmured in the darkness. He knew that voice, and that realization was enough to bring him back to himself with a jolt, to remember who he was and where he was, and he pushed aside his panic and drunkenness and the hands and hissed something incoherent at the voice, and he couldn't make himself look to see who it was in the twilight that wouldn't quite conceal their identities. He pushed himself off the bed, trying not to brush against the other, and found his pants with his toes. He could feel his (almost-lover, his mind supplied) companion's confusion like a tangible thing against his skin, but he wasn't the sort to give explanations and how could he possibly try to explain something like this? He had no words for it, and if it were Hakkai or Gojyo they wouldn't need words and if (gods forbid) it were Goku the boy would just have to figure things out on his own, because fuck it all if Sanzo would explain what happens to boys with pretty faces out on their own in the dark.

There was an unexpected touch to his shoulder and he jerked away, violently enough that he could hear his back protest, twisting to knock away the intruding arm, his stomach knotting itself in a fresh burst of terror. Not again, don't touch me, get away or die or anything - and he realized that his body hadn't listened to his mind, and he was staring into startled green eyes that clouded over with shock, then folded miserably into understanding and sorrow. He flinched away again, and not for the first time cursed Hakkai for understanding so fucking much. Hakkai knew what happened to boys with pretty faces.

He had looked away again, and so he didn't see when Hakkai leaned forward and embraced him. Hakkai's arms were warm, he noticed. And that was the only thing he dared to think of it, because it was awkward and strange and how could people like this? This was worse than sex, this was stupid, his elbow was in Hakkai's ribs, but it was warm there in Hakkai's arms. So he didn't pull away this time, even though it was almost as frightening as the hands on his thighs, the remembered ghost-touches where hands should not have been. He remembered as he felt Hakkai breathe in that he had a voice.

"Hakkai." The name broke in his throat, and he realized his hands were shaking. He coughed to clear his throat. "Hakkai." It was clearer that time, certainly recognizable as a name, and he clenched his hands together to stop the shaking. It got worse. "Hakkai, don't…"

"Hush." The arms around him shifted, and a hand rubbed gentle circles on his back. "You don't have to do anything. Just this."

"Don't." But he wasn't sure he meant it now, wasn't sure he wanted to push Hakkai away. His hands wouldn't stop shaking, and it was getting harder to breathe. The ghostly fingers were teasing his knees. He took in a long, deep breath and spoke with as much confidence as he could muster: "Hakkai, don't touch me."

A pause, a moment too long, and then Hakkai's arms were pulling away and turning cold. He could feel himself trying to follow, but he held his body in check. He turned away and pulled on his clothes and tried not to feel Hakkai's eyes on his back or the remembered hands on his legs. And then he stood, ignoring his trembling and weakness, and walked to the door without looking back. Hakkai's voice stopped him with his hand on the knob.

"Sanzo," Hakkai murmured, "I seem to be drunk."

"Yeah," Sanzo answered, perhaps a little harsher than he intended. "You are." But his hand didn't turn the knob, and he growled at himself for needing words. "Hakkai. It's not… anything about you. Nothing happened."

"Yes," Hakkai sighed. "Nothing happened. And in the morning, we will leave this anonymous town. We will fall back into comfortable habits and nothing will have happened."

"You're not usually this forward." It's the only thing Sanzo could think to say, and his thrice-damned hand still wasn't turning the doorknob.

"I seem to be drunk." Explanation and excuse, tightly rolled up together in an apologetic tone - Sanzo knew the trick. Damn him.

"Yes," Sanzo repeated, ignoring the stupidity of saying something more than once. "You are." And then his hand finally turned the doorknob and he left.


End file.
